An Interesting Child
by YouCareSoMuch
Summary: "Why don't you scream?" the monster whispered. A chubby hand reached out and touched the monster's forehead. "You're not scary." the boy whispered back. Monster!lock and little John. AU, obviously. I do not own these characters; they belong to the BBC and ACD. Now complete.
1. Introductions

An Interesting Child

The monster had been around for centuries. He was the thing you were afraid of when you lay in the dark trying to fall asleep. The monster under your bed. The monster in the closet. He had one goal in his continued existence: terrorizing the weakling creatures known as humans. Children were his preferred prey. Those tiny humans that screamed and cried when he did nothing more than open his wide, pale eyes. Their piteous screams gave him a savage pleasure. Hidden in the dark corners and spaces where humans feared to look, the monster ensnared his prey. Children all over the world for ages have dreaded becoming his next victim. Never had the monster met an exception to this fact.

It was time to move on. The monster had become bored with these humans. The creepy creature crept from room to room in the run-down house. Traveling by night, the dark shadows aided him in his journey. He never stayed in one place for too long. So many tiny humans to frighten, so little time. The two small children who took residence in this house would be relieved to see him go. As would the bigger humans that came running when they heard their precious children moaning. This place had been his haunting ground for far too long. A new territory would surely cure his insufferable boredom.

There was only one child in the new human habitat the monster next deigned to enter. The boy was sleeping. Upon entering the child's room, the monster slipped like a shadow into the space under the bed. The boy continued to sleep like a log. As the sun started climbing past the horizon, flooding the small town with red-orange light, the creature under the bed planned his attack. First impressions, after all, were important.

The monster slunk out from under the bed, watching as the child woke up slowly. The small boy blinked his eyes open. The small boy stared at the towering, black shadow with pale eyes and yellow claws. The small boy said "hello."

A wave of shock swept over the ages old creature and for a minute he was baffled. The child wasn't screaming. He wasn't even trembling in fear as all other tiny humans are wont to do when in his presence. The boy couldn't have seen more than five winters and yet he looked at the terrifying monster with nothing more than mild interest.

"I'm John." The boy stated in a matter-of-fact voice. He felt another wave of crippling shock. What was going on? This was not how the first encounter with a new child was supposed to go. The boy—John—was still staring at him his eyes wide with a child's curiosity. Bullying his mind into remembering how to communicate, the monster opened his mouth and responded in a menacing, baritone voice, baring his fangs: "Hello." This greeting was not meant to be friendly. The singular word served as a harbinger to the boy's doom. John, the boy, seemed amused. Too amused. He giggled shrilly, causing the monster to let loose a dismal sigh. This was not going well.

"What exactly do you find so humorous?" he asked, trying to bring control to the meeting. In response John covered his grin with his small hands to hide another effervescent burst of giggles. The utter ridiculousness of the situation bewildered the monster. Not knowing what else to do, he approached John's bed. The giggles stopped abruptly as the monster leaned over the boy. What made him different from every other child he had haunted? His wide, ancient eyes were just inches from John's deep, brown eyes. Without an inkling of fear, the boy gazed at the creature that had made grown men shriek like children.

"Why don't you scream?" the monster whispered. A chubby hand reached out and touched the monster's forehead. Mystified, he stepped back. John continued to stare at him.

"You're not scary." The boy whispered back. Then his brown eyes sparkled with glee, "Your voice sounds funny."

As the child guffawed again the monster narrowed his eyes at the strange creature trying to trick him into believing it was a tiny human. The laughter subsided and John's eyes rested once more on the tall, dark stranger that had invaded his home.

"Who are you?"

Ah. Now the introductions. If he couldn't even make this child of five recoil in fright he was clearly losing his touch. "I have no name. I have no home." He said impatiently, "I exist to scare tiny humans like you."

This statement did not perturb John in the slightest. He bounced up and down slightly on his bed, still tangled in his blankets. "Are you gonna try and scare me?" he said eagerly.

"That _is_ the goal, little one." Vaguely amused now, the monster watched as John prepared himself to be scared. He gazed at the creature expectantly. The monster narrowed his eyes at the child. This reaction was very strange indeed.

With no warning, he allowed his form to expand, filling the room with a pitch-black darkness. His shadowy form even diminished the light of the rising sun. The room became tomb-like. He could hear John's teeth chattering as the cold permeating throughout his bedroom set deep into his bones. The monster held his expanded form for a minute or two, then when he was satisfied he allowed himself shrink back into a solitary shadow. The room brightened, the warmth returned. John's face was pale but as the monster watched for a reaction in the child his cheeks flushed.

"T-that…" the monster smirked, waiting for the delightful screams to start at long last. "That was amazing. You're amazing!"

Curse this impossible child. He needed something bigger. John still looked awestruck and amazed. The monster sneered at him unpleasantly but the child was still unaffected. His sneer made John stick out his tongue in defiance. Very well. He asked for it. The monster's form dissipated at his command. He didn't often use invisibility in his scaring tactics. He much preferred allowing his victim to see the being that was terrorizing them. This ensured his place of honor in their nightmares. But unique methods were needed for a unique child, and John was, he had to admit, unique.

The monster launched himself to the opposite side of John's room. A wind gust followed his movements and swept John's already sleep-tousled hair away from his face. An evil smirk on his face, the monster swirled up a tornado of wind in the middle of the boy's room. He rattled the posts of John's bed and tore down the curtains. High winds knocked books off the bookshelves and threw furniture haphazardly. The monster slowed his flight and grinned maliciously at the wreck that used to be a little boy's room.

Looking at the overturned furniture he realized that he hadn't been trying to keep the noise down. John's parents must be deep sleepers. Speaking of John… now that he had revealed his power over the elements the boy must be well and truly scared.

"Well, little one? How was that?" It was rather like a game now. The monster was having fun. John was a very interesting child. He found that he wouldn't mind to much if John wasn't scared this time. No fear meant bigger tactics and the monster was ready to bring in the big guns. John hadn't answered. There was complete silence. The monster looked at the boy's bed. He saw that it was overturned like the rest of the furniture. It did not immediately register with the monster that John had been on top of the bed before his manufactured windstorm. The monster blinked in confusion. Then the bed shifted. A little hand reached out of the side and pushed at the side of the bed. The monster froze. John was trapped under his bed. John didn't even scream when his bed flipped under him taking him with it! The monster felt fear for the first time in his existence and he flung himself toward the injured boy.

"John? Talk to me, John." Frantically he picked John's bed off the ground, hearing a quiet groan as he did so. The monster's superhuman strength got away from him as he looked at John's crumpled form and he propelled the bed across the room. The boy was dazed and had a cut on his head that was leaking a red liquid. The monster had never seen blood before. Unknown emotions tore through the monster's chest. A sickening feeling of guilt weighed him down like a stone. Remorse caused his previously nonexistent heart to twinge in pain. John's injuries were his fault. He had never hurt a child physically before.

"Ow…" John muttered. The monster scooped the child into his usually formless arms and examined him closely. John eyes were shut tightly and the mirth and adoration that had adorned his small face was replaced by pain and shock. The monster found himself stammering half-formed apologies; words he had never said before were pouring out of his mouth. "Alright? Are you alright? It's okay, little one. You will be fine. I will clean up your room. It's the least I can do after all, I'm terribly sorry…"

Now he was babbling complete nonsense. He dragged John's bed back to its proper place with John still held tightly in his arms. The child was leaning into him trustingly, though the monster had done nothing to deserve his trust. He carefully placed John back on his bed and started restoring his room. The monster felt John's eyes on him as he put the books back on the bookshelf. It was certainly a peculiar sight, the centuries old monster busying himself with cleaning a child's room.

The monster tried to take steadying breaths. Why was he feeling such complicated emotions? The heartless being had developed a heart just because a boy had called him amazing and stared at him in awe. This boy had turned a suave, Satan-like creature into an awkward and fumbling mess just by not being afraid as had been the pattern for centuries. This would not do. Sentiment was a weakness and the monster would never be mistaken for feeling it. And yet, John was smiling at him again: a bemused smile that somehow made the boy look even younger.

John's room was put back to normal. John now looked at him like an inquisitive puppy; his head was cocked to the left and his eyes were bright.

"Thank you." He said. "That was pretty scary! I know I didn't scream like—like you wanted me to but that was just because—because, well, I was under my bed." He ended his speech with a nervous laugh. "It really did scare me, honest!" John said bracingly when the silence stretched.

The monster found himself smiling. Now this fascinating child was trying to comfort him. "Perhaps my efforts in scaring you were a tad extreme." John giggled at that, and the monster felt yet another foreign emotion bloom in his chest. He thought it might be happiness. The monster's smile grew. "It's alright that you didn't scream, little one. I think I prefer hearing you laugh."

John beamed at him.

7

An Interesting Child


	2. Questions and Names

**Author's Note: Orphanages don't technically exist anymore. They are called children's homes or foster houses now. John says he lives in an orphanage because the word 'orphanage' is a word a seven-year-old would probably understand. Forgive my unrealistic terminology! Just pretend orphanages still exist! The only thing I own is my plot and my insanity!**

The monster asks John about his parents. John looks confused.

"I don't have parents. I just have Mrs. Hudson. She's the caretaker of the orphnage—no—orphanage."

John said all of this delicately, like he was afraid of breaking the situation he was in with just his words.

The monster pondered this as John stared at him with those bright brown orbs. No parents. How can this be? The monster had never heard of a little human with no parents. And what is an orphanage, as John termed the house they were in? Was it a house where all children without a home to call their own lived? The monster decided that was terribly sad. Another emotion the monster was unused to experiencing: pity.

John interrupted the monster's thoughts, it seemed as if John had been doing some thinking on his own. "I didn't have a name either," John said in his small voice, looking down at his bare feet. "I-I named myself." John seemed more closed off than before, it was like he suddenly remembered his place. "You know where I got my name?"

The monster shook his head, bewildered at this turn of events.

"From a book. I first came here when I was..." John thought for a moment, his eyes on his wall, like he was searching for the answer there. "Two I think. And Mrs. Hudson helped me pick out my name from a big book with all of the names in the world in it." John said this somberly: where had his eager excitement gone?

"Why didn't you have a name?" Now that John was explaining the circumstances of his coming to live here, the monster was eager to listen. Maybe if he learned John's backstory he would be able to understand why he found John so fascinating.

John furrowed his brow. When he spoke, his voice was coarse with the emotion of someone who has suffered. A seven-year-old should not have that pain in his voice, the monster reflected.

"My parents didn't want me. Well... that's what Phillip says... he's another boy that lives at the orphnage. No, _orphanage._ Phillip is older than me. He knows. My parents didn'twant me so they left me here with-without giving me a name." John's eyes were far away, looking back on a troubled past that the monster had caused him to recollect.

The monster walked forward with his long black legs and crouched at John's side. John had went through a whirlwind (metaphorically and literally, considering the monsters final scare tactic) of emotions today. It was all the monsters fault. A tear slowly welled up on John's eyelid. The monster wiped the tear away carefully with one of his shadowy hands, displaying a tenderness he had never known existed until this moment.

"Why didn't they want me?" John's voice was trembling with suppressed emotion. Where had this boy learned to suppress his emotions? Why did he feel he needed to?

"I don't know if I'm qualified to answer that, little one. I know nothing about the ways of humans."

John sniffled and looked up at the monster. John wiped his leaking eyes and offered the monster a watery smile. "I'm sorry. I don't like to cry in front of anyone. Mrs. Hudson tells me I'm strong. But she doesn't see me cry."

The monster was astounded. He had never met a small human like John before. Then again, he had never _talked_ to a small human before.

As the sun had long since risen above the horizon, the monster was unsurprised to hear faint stirrings on the other floors of the house he had entered. It seemed as if years had passed since the monster had first entered John's residence; so much had changed since then, the monster's entire world had been flipped on its head.

John looked towards his bedroom door and wiped another tear from his face impatiently. "I have to go downstairs." John whispered. "It's time for breakfast."

The monster let the boy leave, lost in his own thoughts. He had no place here. The monster had no desire to scare John, but that was all he knew how to do. Haunting was all the monster had ever done. If he stayed here, he would never scare again. Scaring John was completely out of the question, for reasons the monster did not yet understand.

Shaking his shadowy head as if gnats were flying around him, the monster came back to the present. Meeting John had changed something fundamentally within the monster. Everything had changed. He had to stay to find out why. There would be no scaring. The monster needed answers. Why didn't he scare John? Why didn't he _want_ to scare John? Why was he...feeling?

The door opened; the monster slipped into the shadows. He could avoid being seen if he wished. John and another boy entered. The new boy had brown hair and a sneering expression. John looked uncomfortable as the new boy followed him in the room.

John's eyes searched the room for the monster, and when their eyes met, the monster held a finger to his lips, silently telling John not to bring attention to his presence.

The new boy noticed nothing, he was glaring at John and talking incessantly. "...all I'm saying is you don't have to skulk off alone all the time. You could hang out with us. People will think you're odd if you're alone all the time. Well, odder than they already think you are."

The monster had a strange urge to knock the sneering boy to the ground.

"I'm not odd, Phillip." John said quietly, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes and munching on a piece of toast he had clearly brought from the breakfast table.

"Oh yeah?" The sneering boy loomed over John. "You still sleep with a teddy bear!"

"I'm seven." John said defensively.

"You learned the names of all the bones in the human body. Now that's weird."

John smiled slightly at that comment.

"You never play with other kids."

"I'm not odd, Phillip." John's last defense was pretty feeble.

"Whatever, John. When you wanna be _normal._ Join us."

Phillip slammed John's door behind him as he walked out. Even the melodramatic centuries old monster thought that action was unnecessary.

John found the monster's eyes again and shrugged.

"Phillip is nine. He's smart."

The monster scoffed. "If you think that boy is intelligent you have never met an intelligent person."

John smiled a sad little smile.

It was almost as if the happy and fearless John the monster had met had been replaced by a introspective sad little boy. The monster wished he could bring the happy John back. The John that was nonchalant about a monster in his room, and didn't talk about crying as though it was something indecent.

"Are you alright, little one?"

John gazed at the monster. "Yes. When you mentioned my parents I... got sad." John straightened his worn pajama shirt and walked closer to the monster. "I'm sorry I was sad. I'm glad you're still here. Are you gonna stay here?"

The monster decided wonders would never cease. This poor child had apologized for feeling sad. Yes, the mystery of this child needed to be solved. "I will stay for now. I have questions that need answering." It was best to be candid with small humans.

John's eyes had some of their past light. "Okay. Well... I need something to call you if you're going to stay."

"That's quite unnecess— "

"You need a name." John said firmly. "I'm going to get the big book with all the names from Mrs. Hudson." John spoke in a business-like tone; the monster was amused. John ran from the room and shut the door quietly behind him.

What had the monster gotten himself into? He shook his head in disbelief as he waited for John to come back.

"I've got it!" John said as he came back into the room. John had a large book in his arms. Or, perhaps the book only looked large because John was so small for his age.

John sat on the floor with the book and opened it, pondering its contents. "I'm a pretty good reader. Mrs. Hudson has been teaching me. She reads a book to the kids here every day."

The monster was thankful for Mrs. Hudson. It was starting to sound as though she was John's only friend in this place.

"This book is great, you know why?" John was regaining his old excitement and the monster was pleased.

"Why?" He asked, humoring the child.

"Because it starts with all of the 'A' names, and then goes all the way through the alphabet!" Children get excited about the strangest things. "There's even names that start with a 'Z'!" John was riffling happily through the book's ample pages.

The monster glided to John and sat at his side. John looked a little surprised at the monster's abrupt action, but he didn't say anything.

The monster stared at the book that John held. It was covered with black marks, but the monster couldn't make out what the marks meant. He had never read before. His pale eyes scanned the yellowing pages with no recognition.

John seemed to know that the monster was struggling. "It's alright, We can sound out the words together. I'm still learning too."

"Hm. How did you learn all of the bones in the human body without knowing how to read?" A genuine question from the monster, he remembered the sneering boy's—Phillip's— comments.

John looked a little abashed, and he sighed. "I don't know all of them yet. Phillip just thinks I do. I know the clavicle, and the mandible, and the scapula. And the skull of course." John pronounced each bone name carefully, emphasizing each syllable. "Doctors have to know all the bones. So they can fix people. I'd like to be a doctor." John told the monster matter-of-factly.

"What's the use of a name?" John looked up at the monster at this change of subject. The monster let his curiosity have full rein over his mind. He had never bothered with things like names or books before.

John tilted his head to the side, "Everyone needs a name. It's what people say when they want to get your attention, I guess. And it's what people think when they look at you. Names have lots of feelings in them." John continued to search the pages of the name book. He still seemed completely unfazed by the fact that he was making calm conversation with a monster of nightmares.

"Why did you choose the name 'John'?"

John shrugged. "I could read it?" He giggled. "I like my name. This book says all the names and what the names mean. And the name 'John' means 'God is gracious'... I liked the sound of that."

The monster shook his head slightly. Sentiment.

"Mrs. Hudson says gracious means giving." John hadn't looked up from the book yet.

"What kind of name do you want? Boy or girl?"

The monster furrowed his brow. "Boy." The monster was amazed at himself for actually caring about this nomenclature business. Amazed at himself for wanting to please John. This was just simple data, the monster reminded himself. Nothing more. His questions weren't made because he cared. Certainly not.

"Okay. How about James? James is an Eng-Eng-a-lish. _Eng_ lish name that means su... suppl-supplanter." John frowned. "I don't know what a supplanter is. But I know a kid named James and he's not very nice. Let's find a different name."

John turned a couple of pages back in the book. "How about Greg? I know a boy named Greg too! He's nice. He moved away though. Someone adopted him."

"These names are far too ordinary, little one. Are there any names that have grandeur or majesty?" The monster had closed his large pale eyes as John struggled to read the names.

"I don't know if there's a section for majesty names." John frowned. The monster chuckled.

They searched the book for a while and the monster was amazed at John's patience. The boy seemed determined to find a name that the monster would like. The monster wasn't making it very easy for him. John sounded out the names slowly and traced his finger over the lines as he read.

"Samuel?"

"Dull."

"Sebastian?"

"No."

"What about... Sh'lock? No, that's not it.., Sh-er..Sherlock? Yeah, that's it. Sherlock." John laughed. "It means 'fair-haired'!" John looked up at the monster's shadowy head. "I don't know if that's a good name for you."

The monster liked this name. The name had an air of royalty. It was a name that would make people think of someone who knew everything. The monster thought about being called 'Sherlock'.

He said the name aloud slowly. Feeling the syllables on his tongue. The monster nodded in satisfaction. "I like it. Good choice, little one."

John looked gleeful. The monster congratulated himself on making the child happy, and then wondered why he did it.

John closed the book of names and lay back onto the ground. "Sherlock." He said. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." John closed his eyes and smiled a blissful smile. "I like it too." John sat up again and held out one of his small hands.

The monster took John's hand in one of his own slender and black hands with only a moment of hesitation.

"Nice to meetcha, Sherlock." John couldn't stop smiling.

The monster, newly christened as Sherlock by a young boy who was not afraid, found it very hard not to smile as well.

 **Author's Note: Phillip is the first name given to Anderson in a lot of fanfics. I don't know if that's Anderson's canon first name, but I'm keeping it anyway. Also, I changed John's age to seven in this chapter and the first one because of reasons.**


	3. Learning

**Author's Note: I stink at plot. Right now, I'm just exploring these characters and developing their personalities. This story could eventually have a plot though. I own nothing but my story and my insanity!**

Sherlock the monster became accustomed to his new name over the next week. The monster had never been called anything. Children saw him and screamed; adults saw him and gasped. Then, came John. A child who named himself and then named the monster who had never had a name. John saw him and said "Sherlock". The monster liked his name.

The monster—Sherlock—also became accustomed to John's day-to-day routine. Sherlock never left John's room. Had it not been for John's constant state of activity, Sherlock would've been frightfully bored. John was all energy. Sherlock had never seen anyone with so much boundless enthusiasm and hyperactivity.

John talked a lot as well; the boy clearly had a lot to say and not many people he felt he could talk to. Sherlock the monster was honored to be allowed into John's little world. Most of the time.

"...and I think Phillip was lying when he said that Sally lost the race they had during outside time cos, cos Sally is really fast and no one can beat her in a race but I bet I could beat her because I've been practicing and I'm as fast as as lightning! But I twisted my ankle once when I was running and that really hurt. Mrs. Hudson made it better though..." John barely paused for breath before he was off again. His speeches were invariably about what he _thought._ Johnthoughtabout a lot of things it seemed.

"...206 bones in the human body and there's a lot of little bones in your hands and feet, so—"

"Little one," Sherlock interrupted John one morning a week or so after he had gotten his name. "Does this story have an end?"

John frowned. "No." He said simply. But he stopped the tirade after that. John clambered up onto his bed and started jumping up and down; Sherlock watched him disinterestedly as this jumping ritual was one of John's favorite pastimes.

"Why are you still here?" John asked this question a lot.

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock probed, watching the still jumping boy closely.

"No." John stopped jumping but remained standing on his bed. "But... it's probably not very fun here. All you do is stay in my room. You don't even sleep!"

Sherlock had no use for sleep. When John slept, he merely stood and watched him. John slept deeply and soundly. His little face lost the constant look of contemplation the little boy displayed when he was awake. Sherlock thought that John looked even smaller when he was curled up under his covers.

"I have told you why I stay, little one. I have questions that need answering."

John furrowed his brow at Sherlock from where he stood on his bed. "What questions?"

Sherlock thought it was best to tell the truth; he had a feeling that John would know if he had lied.

"Why aren't you afraid?"

John gave him a look of frustration. "I'm not afraid because you look lonely."

Sherlock recoiled. Lonely?

"What do you mean?"

John got off of his bed carefully and walked over to where Sherlock stood. Sherlock crouched down to be at John's level and John placed his hand palm down on Sherlock's forehead; the monster closed his large eyes. "You look lonely." John said again quietly, "Lonely and sad. I saw your eyes." Sherlock opened his large pale eyes at this.

"What about my eyes?" He had never asked so many questions in his life as he did around John.

John's hand was still on his forehead.

"Your eyes are old. Very old. And there's a shadow in them, that's the sadness. And your eyes are big. And they are full of... a lost feeling. You look lost. So, I didn't scream. And I'm not afraid."

"I'm a monster, little one. Look at me. What do you see? These are the questions I need answered. Why do you act as though I am human?"

Sherlock noticed that his voice was becoming more foreboding with each word. John looked concerned and the boy stepped back, removing his small hand from the monster's head. Sherlock stood up. He towered over John and John looked up into the monster's face with no fear in his eyes.

"Look at me. Tell me why you are not afraid." A week's inhabitance with the boy had not given Sherlock his answer. It was time for comprehension on both sides.

"I'm not scared of you because I'm lonely too."

This was not what Sherlock was expecting.

"When I saw you, I thought you looked just like me. And you weren't scary."

"I do not look just like you, little one." Sherlock said slightly frustrated.

"Well, no. You don't. You're really tall and you have bright eyes and sharp teeth. Also, you look like a shadow. Your face looked just like mine when I first saw you, though."

John stared at him intently. "You're nervous. I'm nervous because I don't know how to do a lot of things. See, your eyebrows clench together," John clenched his eyebrows in demonstration. "That means you are worried and nervous. Like me. And your lips are pressed together. Mrs. Hudson says I have that look on my face too. She says I press my lips together when I'm thinking about something. Or when I'm defermined. No. Determined."

Sherlock was astounded. "The first thing you noticed about me was my facial expression? Not my blatantly monster-like appearance?"

"Yes. Mrs. Hudson says I need to treat everyone how they want to be treated. Even if they look a little different."

Sherlock laughed incredulously. "A little different?!" He inquired of John slightly hysterically.

"The first thing I saw was your eyes— "

"Yes, yes, you've talked about my eyes."

"I wanted to help you get that lost look out of your eyes. I wanted a friend. And you wanted a friend too."

The answer Sherlock had been looking for was rather simple.

"Alright, little one. I understand."

John smiled at him softly. "Good." John's mood was as changeable as a tropical storm: He went from concerned to brightly happy in no time at all. "Wanna see my toys? I showed you my books and the games we have at the orphanage, but my toys were in a secret place." John softened his voice to a whisper. "I only show my toys to my friends… so I've never showed anybody." John tapped a finger to his lips in thought, "Except Mrs. Hudson, of course. But she got me the toys."

Sherlock allowed himself to be led to the place where John kept his toys, still thinking about the conversation he had just had with the boy. A friend. That's what John saw him as. Not a monster, a friend.

John's 'secret place' turned out to be a chest in his closet. "These types of boxes open with a key, but I don't have the key because the lock broke so the key wouldn't help me open it anyway."

"True." Sherlock said with a smirk.

John nodded. "The lid is pretty heavy, though. I have to be careful when I lift it because, because, if I don't have a good grip it could fall right on my head!"

Sherlock felt a thrill of fear. "Ah, perhaps I better lift the lid then, little one."

"Okay, you can help me."

John and Sherlock pulled open the lid of the old chest to reveal a hodgepodge of toys.

"Sit down." John said in a commanding voice. Sherlock raised his eyebrow but obliged.

John reached into the chest: he had to bend down far to reach the bottom of it and find what he was looking for. John put each toy he took out on Sherlock's lap and Sherlock studied each object. The things tiny humans used to entertain themselves were odd. The first object Sherlock studied was a plastic tube-like thing that had earpieces on one end and a small disc-shaped piece on the other end. Sherlock held the object up to his eyes and stretched it. John watched him amused.

"That's a stefoscope. No, a _stethoscope._ Doctors use them to hear your heart beating. This is just a toy one though."

Sherlock put the ear pieces in his ears. "These are horridly uncomfortable."

John laughed. "Yeah. I lost the covers that made them comfier." John stepped forward and took the disc-like apparatus in his small hands. "Listen!" he said. Then John tapped the front of the disc with his index finger.

Sherlock jumped: a loud noise had come through the earpieces and resounded in his head.

"Hear that?" John asked eagerly.

"Yes."

"Now listen to this." John placed the disc on his chest.

This noise was truly astounding. It was John's heartbeat. Slow and steady, the boy's heart pounded in Sherlock's ears. "How does it work?" Sherlock asked with awe.

John tilted his head. "The circle thing hears my heartbeat, and the sound travels through this tube to the earpieces." John said confidently, tracing his finger over the tube as he explained.

Sherlock shook his head slightly as he continued to listen to John's heartbeat. "Not that. Your heart. How does it work?" Sherlock had never even heard his own heartbeat, much less the heartbeat of a small human. The pounding was like clockwork.

"I don't know how my heart works. That's why I want to be a doctor. To learn about the heart and how it pumps blood through the body." John was completely certain in his chosen profession.

Sherlock thought he could listen to the proof of life for hours. But John impatiently took the earpieces from his ears.

"Let me hear yours!"

Sherlock had never been more conscious of his existence than he was in that moment when John listened to the heart that had been nonexistent for as long as the old monster could remember. He could feel it beating now. It beat quickly in his chest as though it were fluttering.

"Sounds good!" John said with a smile.

John put the stethoscope away and showed Sherlock more of his toys. There were balls and puzzles and little automobiles, none of which gave Sherlock the revelation of human life he had received with the stethoscope.

"This is my favorite toy of all." John said, showing Sherlock a stuffed bear with light yellow fur. The bear was dressed in a vest, overcoat, and trousers.

"Charming." Sherlock said. "What's his name then?" For John had given all of his toys a name—even the cars.

"This is Mr. Bilbo Baggins. I named him from a book Mrs. Hudson read to all of us. It was a good book. It had a dragon. I showed it to you a couple of days ago, remember? I'm learning to read it myself." John smiled in satisfaction.

"Yes, how could I forget your collection of books, little one?" This statement was said just to please the little boy; in truth, Sherlock didn't know which book John was referring to.

"I keep Mr. Bilbo Baggins in here so no one can steal him. I've had him for a long time. Almost forever, I think."

As John put away his toys, making sure to place Mr. Bilbo Baggins the bear on top, Sherlock figured he would never understand humans and their small counterparts called children. However, he had ample time to learn about them. He had no intention of leaving John now. They were tied irrevocably in a new concept to the monster: Friendship.


	4. Games

**Author's Note: Some more character and setting building. I love writing their interactions. I own nothing but my story and my insanity! Review to tell me what you think!**

"In a h-hole in the gro-grow. Ground. There l-lived a hobbit."

John struggled to read the first sentence of a book he had tenderly taken off of his bookshelf; the boy treated the small, leather-bound book as though it was a precious treasure.

John traced his finger over each word as he read painstakingly slow, and Sherlock sat next to him, frowning at the black marks on the page and wondering if monsters could be taught to read.

"Not a nah-nasty dirt-y. Dirty, wet hole f-filled with the ends of w-worms and an... oozy smell..."

It had been about two months since Sherlock had met the boy who had turned his world on its head. The boy had gradually become acclimatized to Sherlock's presence and he had stopped asking if the monster planned on leaving. They had reached a degree of comfort with each other. A kind of comfort in familiarity that Sherlock the monster had never known before.

John had given him a tour of the orphanage he lived in a little while ago, and Sherlock had appreciated the further insight into John's life that he had received during the tour.

Sherlock had turned invisible for the occasion so as not to scare the other mundane children. Through John's running commentary on the children and the various rooms in the orphanage, Sherlock had learned a lot about the little slice of humanity enclosed in the orphanage.

The children were abundant. Sherlock got quite a shock the first time he left John's room and saw scores of little humans playing, bickering, and _existing._ Sherlock had always scared children; this was his job. The fact that he could walk invisibly through the masses of children, content to follow John and listen to the boy's constant narrative instead of terrorize the many children was truly reflective of the monster's changed state. He didn't terrorize for sport anymore: his entire existence now was built around John, and his fascination with him.

Sherlock had also met the infamous Mrs. Hudson he had heard so much about from John. It was clear that Mrs. Hudson, a little old lady who wore a worn plaid dress, utterly adored John. She doted on him as she doted on all of the kids in the orphanage: with maternal care.

"...and you're much too skinny John, love, are you not eating enough at meal times? Don't be afraid to get seconds as there's plenty for everyone. Oh, and we must replace that old jumper, you simply cannot wear it again, there's a hole in it!"

So went the speech Mrs. Hudson had harangued John with when he entered the main floor of the orphanage, Sherlock standing invisibly two steps behind John.

John had endured Mrs. Hudson's ministrations patiently and fondly.

"...this was a hobbit hole. And that m-meant com..fort. Comfort."

John sat up straight as he finished reading the first two sentences of his book; the boy looked immensely proud of himself.

"How do you decipher these black marks, little one?" Sherlock asked John, coming out of his reverie and staring at the pages of the book once more.

John looked at his book with affection. "The words are made of letters from the alphabet. Each letter sounds like something different. And they look different from each other too. I learned the alphabet a long time ago."

Sherlock pondered this.

"So, you know a special code that allows you to figure out what these black marks mean?"

John giggled. "Kind of. When I know how to read really fast I'll teach you too."

Sherlock the monster nodded. "Yes, you must. The experience looks interesting."

"Everything is interesting to you, Sherlock." John said with a mischievous glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Hm. Not everything. For instance, children are frightfully dull."

John looked slightly disheartened at this. Sherlock observed John's reaction, then reassured the boy.

"Except for you, little one. You are fascinating."

John beamed and then surprised the monster by hugging him tightly around the middle. The hug was over as quickly as it began and with a bound, John got up and ran across the room to his toy chest, leaving Sherlock still sitting on the floor, utterly shocked by John's hug.

John placed his book carefully on top of his toy chest.

"That's enough reading for today, I think." John said as he closed the closet door. "We should play a game!" John moved from one activity to another with all the eagerness of the hyperactive child he was.

"A game?" Sherlock questioned, still shell-shocked from the first physical contact he had had in... forever. "What is a game?"

John looked puzzled. "You don't know what a game is?"

"Human pastimes are not a part of my repertoire."

"But we play games all the time! We played checkers just a couple days ago!"

"Yes. And after you taught me the rules I crushed you in competition."

John stuck his tongue out in response.

"So, that was a game, then?"

"Hm hmm." John affirmed. John flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling. "When you play with your friends and try to win, then it's a game. I think."

"What game did you have in mind, little one?"

"Hide-and-seek!" John did not hesitate for a second. "Can we play hide-and-seek? Please? Please?" John had sat up quickly and was giving Sherlock an expression of desperation.

"I never get to play it here because no one wants to play with me, even though it's my favorite game! Please, can you play hide-and-seek with me?"

John slid off his bed and ran to Sherlock where he was still sitting on the floor.

Once at Sherlock's side he proceeded to clasp his small hands underneath his chin and plead silently with his eyes.

Sherlock stared at him. John's expression seemed to be melting the monster's insides. Sherlock could not present an argument in the face of John's brown eyes pleading for him to say yes.

Interesting.

"Okay." Sherlock acquiesced, not entirely sure why he could not resist John's pleas.

John looked ecstatic. "I'll hide. You can be the seeker." With that, John started to scamper across the room.

"What? Little one, what am I supposed to do?"

John turned around impatiently. "You close your eyes and count! Then you try to find me!"

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock. "You've really never played hide-and-seek before?"

"Never. I've never played _anything_ before."

"You're lucky I'm teaching you, then." John smiled. "Okay, close your eyes! And no peeking!"

Bemused, Sherlock stood up and did as he was told.

"Are they closed?"

"Yes, little one."

Sherlock heard vague sounds of shuffling as he stood there with his eyes closed.

"You're supposed to count!" John said from across the room.

"Oh. Right."

As Sherlock counted, he thought about the times he had played this kind of game with other children. Not like this, though. In the past the children were hiding out of immense fear and the monster would seek them with malice in his eyes, intent on the hunt. Without stopping to count, he'd prowl, relishing the panicked breathing of his prey...

Not anymore. John was hiding because of a game—an innocent children's game, not a monster's game of fear—and Sherlock was seeking him to make him happy. He would never scare John as he had so many other countless and nameless children.

"...39, 40. Alright. I shall now seek you, little one."

A muffled giggle came from under the bed. To humor the child, Sherlock made a big show of looking behind the curtains and the bookshelf.

Another giggle came from under John's bed.

"Ah, the child seems to have vanished." Sherlock said loudly. "Perhaps I should surrender the game—" With a dramatic swoop, Sherlock flew across the room and stuck his head under the bed. "Found you." He said, staring at John as the boy shrieked in delight.

"I seem to excel at this game as well. It was quite easy actually."

John army-crawled out from under his bed. "Now you can hide!"

Sherlock sighed. "As you wish."

Life with a small child was never boring.


	5. Primary School

**Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has followed/favorited/ and reviewed! Let me know what you think of this one. I don't own these characters, I only own my story and my insanity!**

When September came, John started leaving the orphanage along with many other children for hours at a time to go to a place he termed: primary school. John said he had been going to this primary school for two years and he had learned numbers and countries and his letters. Sometimes Sherlock thought it sounded intriguing—a place where children gathered to learn their place in the world—but other times Sherlock nervously contemplated the environment John was going to everyday. Was it safe? Was he happy there? Sherlock had never been nervous about anything before he met John. Now he was practically as protective and anxious as a mother hen.

Two days a week, John didn't have to go to school, and the boy spent these days telling Sherlock all about his primary school.

"I have lots of pencils and crayons and my teacher says I shouldn't use crayons to write my name on my papers but I like to do it anyway because my name—J-O-H-N" the boy spelled the letters in his name proudly, "—need to be in bright blue, cos it looks nice. Also, my teacher—her name is Miss Hooper—told me to write my last name on the top of my papers after my first name, and I told her that I don't have a last name."

John looked sad for a moment, but he jumped back into his speech eagerly enough, "She didn't believe me until Mrs. Hudson came to my school and told Miss Hooper that I don't have a birf—no—birth certificate. So, I don't know my last name. Or my first name, really, because I named myself."

John paused for breath. "Why don't grown-ups believe kids? I was telling the truth when I said I didn't have a last name but Miss Hooper looked at me like I was strange."

Sherlock didn't know how to answer this question; the inner workings of humans mystified him.

"Are you... protected at this primary school, little one?" Sherlock inquired. Foreign emotions like worry and fear bombarded the monster when he thought about John at primary school without Sherlock there to protect him.

This child had brought the monster the gift of life and happiness that he had long been denied. The thought of anything happening to John was unbearable to Sherlock. These feelings were utterly new to Sherlock and they were a little frightening.

John pondered Sherlock's question. "Yes. I think so. The teachers make sure that we follow all of the rules so we don't get hurt." John said seriously.

Sherlock stared at the boy introspectively.

The boy needed to cut his hair; his tousled blonde locks hung in his eyes and he constantly brushed it back as he looked at all of his school books. John seemed completely unperturbed by the subject of primary school, he was the exact opposite: John adored school. The place couldn't be dangerous... could it? Sherlock would just have to trust John's word. The boy had been going there for a couple years after all.

"Alright." Sherlock conceded, though he was still uneasy.

"Miss Hooper said that I'm a good reader, and she said that, that soon I'd be able to read really big books!"

Sherlock hummed distractedly in response.

"Are you listening, Sherlock?"

"What? Oh, yes, yes. Reading. Delightful."

John giggled. "It _is_ delightful." John looked at Sherlock speculatively. "Want me to teach you? You said you wanted to learn how to read."

Sherlock looked down at John from where he was perched on the boy's dresser. "You are just learning how to read yourself, little one."

John looked so affronted it was amusing. "I'm a great reader. Miss Hooper said so. I don't have to teach you." John crossed his arms and bit his lip.

Sherlock the monster smiled softly at the boy's stubbornness. A moment later, John's kind nature won out and he uncrossed his arms. He smiled at Sherlock a little sheepishly.

"Sorry. I want to teach you. Will you let me? Can I try? I know I can't read that well yet, but I can teach you the alphabet?" John spoke tentatively; it saddened Sherlock that John felt like he had to explain himself every time he wanted to do something. It was like John assumed he had to fight for everything.

"I would be honored if you taught me how to read, little one."

This statement made John's little face radiant.

"Okay. Okay, let me get some paper, so I can show you the alphabet." John now spoke so quickly, Sherlock knew that the boy feared the monster would change his mind.

Soon, Sherlock and John were both sitting on the floor, a piece of paper between them covered in a seven-year old's scrawl.

"...then there's the letter 'T', and 'T' is like a cross. See there's a line that goes down," John drew a straight line on the paper. "And then a line that goes side to side on top of the line that goes down." John drew a horizontal line on top of the straight line he had just drawn.

Sherlock tilted his head to look at the paper from a different angle; all of the marks were indecipherable to him still.

John explained each letter with a representation of what it looked like. "All the books in the world have the alphabet in them. You put the letters together to make words and then you put words together to make sentences." John smiled in satisfaction after his explanation.

John proceeded to classify the scribbled alphabet he had drawn on the paper with specific sounds.

"Each letter sounds different." John said in response to Sherlock's question as to how words on paper could become spoken word.

"So, when you see the letters in the words you," John furrowed his brow in thought. "You put all of the sounds together." He concluded.

John was a patient teacher; he and Sherlock sat there next to the paper with the alphabet on it for an hour or two and talked about how letters make words.

Mrs. Hudson came in the room at around noon with laundry and effervescent conversation.

"Hello, John dear." The motherly woman said fondly as she walked into the room.

Sherlock disappeared at will into the shadows before Mrs. Hudson could see him. Over the months of residing there, Sherlock had grown quite adept at hiding from eyes that weren't John's. Though the monster mostly habited John's room, he had ventured out into the orphanage at John's request a couple of times and Sherlock never exited the boy's room without first turning invisible.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson. I'm practicing my alphabet." John indicated the piece of paper on the floor.

"Very practical, love. Are you excited to go back to school tomorrow?"

John nodded eagerly. "It's show-and-tell tomorrow! I'm going to bring Mr. Bilbo Baggins to show my class!"

Mrs. Hudson looked puzzled for a minute, but her expression cleared. "Ah, yes, your teddy bear. Well, that should be fun. Here's your laundry, John," she had separated the clothes into three piles: shirts, pants, and undergarments. "And make sure you come down for lunch before it gets cold!" Mrs. Hudson bustled from the room.

"Going to lunch, little one?" Sherlock said as he came back into view, invisibility no longer needed.

"Yes." John stood up with the nimbleness inherent in children.

"I'll teach you more when I get back." John said. "How do you like it so far? The alphabet?"

"It is ingenious. I look forward to being able to read as well as you can." Sherlock spoke this lavish praise not out of true fascination with the subject, but because encouragement was helpful to a growing child's self-esteem—as he had learned over the months spent with John.

John tried to hide his proud smile, but was unsuccessful.

"Bye, I'll be back!" John waved at Sherlock as he went to the door and bounded downstairs.

John always reassured Sherlock that he would return when he left the room. But this return was one thing about life with John that Sherlock was unconcerned about: Of course, John would return. The boy was as intrigued by the monster as Sherlock was intrigued by him.

Sherlock bent over the paper they had been working on and tried to remember what John taught him.

He held the paper up and examined the letters closer.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a glimmer of light. Seeking the source of the light, Sherlock's gaze settled on the slightly ajar closet door.

Sherlock curiously contemplated the door. He'd never opened it himself as he hadn't been interested enough to do so, but with his interest now peaked, Sherlock glided forward to see what had made the light.

The closet door creaked open to reveal a long pane of reflective glass...a mirror. Sherlock had heard about mirrors but never in his long, lonely life had he seen his reflection. He was seeing it now though. Sherlock the monster looked at his own reflection with the wide-eyed wonder of a child.

He was tall, taller than the pane of glass so he had to stoop to take in his face. His face was vaguely feline in appearance: sharp cheekbones and pale angular eyes in a dark face. Sherlock opened his mouth slightly to see his curved fangs and saw that his teeth were as pale as his eyes.

Sherlock blinked at his reflection. No wonder children had always been so frightened of him.

His body was a shadow with discernible arm and legs. He was humanoid in form except for the rippling shadows around his torso. Sherlock brought his long-fingered hands up and caressed the mirror where his face was reflected. He looked into his own eyes and searched for what John had saw; the loneliness and fear that John saw that made the boy accept the monster as a friend. He only succeeded in making his pupils dilate. Sherlock could see nothing in his reflection that would offer confidence to a child. And yet...

John seemed completely at ease with the monster's presence; it was as if Sherlock had always been there. And the boy wasn't perturbed by his truly terrifying appearance in the slightest. The mystery of John and his reactions came back in full force.

What had been disbanded by John's admission of simply wanting a friend quickly bemused the monster once more: how could John, that wonderful child, stand to see the freak, the monster every day and not be overwhelmed by fear and disgust?

With his hand still flat on the mirror, Sherlock looked down at the ground in thought.

It was then that John burst back into the room.

"Sherlock, Anderson was making fun of me because I said I was going to bring my teddy bear— Sherlock?" John looked around the room until he caught sight of Sherlock half-hidden by the closet door.

"There you are." John walked over to Sherlock's side. John stuck his tongue out at his reflection when he stepped in front of the mirror alongside the monster. "Whatcha doing?"

"I..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I have never seen my reflection before."

John looked up at him. "Really? You've never seen yourself?"

"Well, I knew of my general appearance, I've been around for a long time... but I have never looked myself in the eyes." Sherlock turned away from the mirror.

He didn't walk far, however, before John gripped the monster's hand in his own.

John entwined their fingers and looked up at Sherlock. "Did it scare you, your reflection? What's wrong?"

Sherlock stared at their clasped hands; John's hand looked very small when entwined with the monster's long, black fingers.

"Nothing is wrong, little one." Now was not the time to bring up his fears.

John looked at him searchingly for a minute more, then he smiled softly and swung their clasped hands playfully.

"Okay. Let's go keep reading."

Sherlock let himself be led to the bookshelf by John and tried to banish his anxiety.

The rest of that day passed without incident. When John was asleep under his covers the monster stood over him pondering his new-found self-loathing.

John excitedly prepared for school the next day.

"It's show-and-tell day, today!" John told Sherlock.

At Sherlock's blank look John explained the process of 'show-and-tell day' and informed the monster that he would be displaying his teddy bear to his class.

Though Sherlock did not understand the boy's enthusiasm over the simple act of showing a teddy bear to a group of children, he told the boy he was happy for him.

Sherlock paced John's room like a caged tiger once John left for school. Being left alone with your own thoughts is not a pleasant experience.

John's primary school only lasted until early afternoon, so Sherlock began expecting him then. John was still absent when the sun began to set. Furrowing his brow at the setting sun, Sherlock felt tendrils of worry start to blossom in his midriff. Where was John? Shouldn't school be over by now? The boy had never been this late before.

The other children in John's class had arrived home some time ago…

Sherlock made himself invisible and ventured down the stairs to the main level of the orphanage. Mrs. Hudson was on the phone in the kitchen when Sherlock crept into the room. The old woman looked frazzled; her wrinkled face had a shadow of stress over it.

"…is he alright? Was the break clean? Oh, the poor dear! Does our health insurance cover broken bones?"

Sherlock staggered. Broken bones? Was Mrs. Hudson talking about John.

Mrs. Hudson responded to the person on the phone after a moment of silence. "He was pushed?" Mrs. Hudson looked shocked. "But, Phillip Anderson has always been very well-behaved… Well, yes, he is rather rude to some children… John has complained about Phillip's comments. Yes, I will be at the hospital shortly. Oh, poor John. He's probably very scared." Mrs. Hudson put down the phone and hurriedly made to leave.

Sherlock could hardly breathe. John was hurt. John was pushed. John was… broken? Did Mrs. Hudson say he was broken? Sherlock knew something like this would happen. The monster followed Mrs. Hudson invisibly through the door, quietly panicking over the state of the boy who had given him a purpose.


	6. Broken

**Author's Note: Warning for broken bones? Should I warn people about that? Nothing too graphic because I can't handle that stuff and I wouldn't do that to little John. I do not own these characters, I only own my story and my insanity!**

 _Broken, broken, broken._ John was broken. Sherlock glided behind the automobile Mrs. Hudson was in to a place for broken people called a hospital.

Sherlock's mind was in disarray. It was all his fault. He knew John wasn't safe at school; he had suspicions for days and days that something like this would happen.

Each floor of the hospital was rife with activity. John wanted to be a doctor, Sherlock remembered. John talked endlessly about his future career. With that in mind, Sherlock gazed at the medical personnel bustling around the rooms with increasing respect.

Where was John? Did Mrs. Hudson know where John was? Sherlock followed the care-worn woman down tiled hallways that were devoid of color. He glided invisibly two steps behind the woman, desperate for news of John's state.

Broken people were everywhere, but where was Sherlock's? Old people, young people, girls, and boys: all types of humans were present in the hospital.

Room 221—according to the number on the door—housed the boy Sherlock needed.

John looked so small on top of the pristine sheets of the hospital bed. He also looked miserable. The boy's left arm was bruised; John held this arm tenderly and winced whenever he moved it. John's face was screwed up against the cries of pain he was too stubborn to let out.

Mrs. Hudson doted over John with many 'poor dears' and 'Oh, Johns' while the boy grimaced painfully.

Still invisible, Sherlock stood in the corner of the room hardly able to breathe.

"Why have they left you alone with so much pain? I'm going to go find your doctor." Mrs. Hudson kissed John on the forehead and hurried from the room.

Sherlock made himself visible to John.

John opened his eyes and managed a soft smile. "I knew you'd come."

Sherlock approached John's bedside slowly and inspected him fully for more injuries.

His knees were scraped and bloody and his left arm—the one that was bruised—was wrapped in a cloth bandage.

Sherlock knelt at his side in dejection. How could he have let this happen.

Tears were now rolling down John's flushed cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Phillip pushed me off the monkey bars when I told him he was stupid. I deserved it. Stupid is a mean word."

"You were _pushed_?"

Sherlock the monster felt his temper rising. "Where is he? I'll make sure he regrets pushing you." Sherlock made to stand up.

"No, Sherlock, stop! You can't hurt Phillip!"

"And why not?" Sherlock saw red. John hadn't become broken on his own. Philip was the enemy.

John tried to sit up but he cried out in pain when pushing himself up.

Immediately, Sherlock dismissed his anger and crouched at John's side again. "John, don't move, you're broken."

John stared at him and his brown eyes had pain in them. "I'm broken?"

"Yes. But you'll be alright." Sherlock felt distinctly out of place. Monsters are not good at reassuring people.

"I know. Bones can heal." John smiled slightly again through a grimace.

"Bones can heal? How?" Sherlock couldn't help a bit of curiosity.

"With a cast. Sherlock, my arm hurts so bad." John swallowed and held his left arm closer to his chest. Sherlock's curiosity could wait.

"John, what can I do to help you?" He asked hesitantly, unsure of how to show John he was worried.

John closed his eyes and more tears fell. The boy wiped them away with his good hand impatiently.

"It hurts, Sherlock." John's breath shuddered as he inhaled. "It hurts like fire."

"I know." In truth, the monster had no idea how broken people felt when they were broken. But this seemed the right thing to say. Sherlock cupped John's wet face in his large, spindly hands.

"Mrs. Hudson went to get your doctor. You're going to be alright, John."

Right on cue, Mrs. Hudson and John's doctor walked into the room.

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, John, we've been busy."

Effortlessly Sherlock faded from view as the adults walked into the room. He took John's good hand in his own and squeezed it comfortingly and John squeezed Sherlock's hand back just as tight.

Sherlock glared at the doctor after his flimsy excuse. John was the most important person in this hospital, how could they have been 'too busy' for him?

"Now, John, the break in your arm was clean, but we are going to have to take precautions to make sure it heals properly."

John stared at the doctor with pain-filled orbs. "What does 'precautions' mean?"

Sherlock noticed that John was speaking quieter than usual; his voice had no hint of the eager talker he was normally.

"Precautions are steps taken to stop further damage." The doctor said patiently.

"Okay, what are you going to do?" Curiosity was evident in John's voice rather than fear. The curiosity of the future doctor.

"First, we need to x-ray your arm to see the extent of the damage. Once we know where your arm is broken, we'll put a cast on it."

John nodded. "I-I know about casts. Will I get to choose a color?"

With a smile, the doctor affirmed John's question.

Everyone smiled when they talked to John, Sherlock noticed. It wasn't just him.

Mrs. Hudson put her hand on John's cheek tenderly.

"You're very brave, John. I'm not allowed to come to the x-ray room with you, but I'll be right here when you get back."

John got out of the hospital bed with a helpful hand from Mrs. Hudson and he tottered after the doctor to the x-ray room. With his right, John still kept his left arm close against his torso. Judging by this continued action Sherlock deduced that pressure could heal broken bones. He would have to ask John about the healing process when the boy felt better. Sherlock followed the doctor and John down the hallway because there was no one to tell him he couldn't.

"Alright, John, just relax and try not to move your arm. This machine is going to take pictures of the inside of your arm."

John looked fascinated despite the pain in his arm.

"Will I be able to see the pictures?"

John still had tear tracks on his face but he smiled when the doctor told him he would be able to see the pictures of his bones.

Though John couldn't see Sherlock, the boy could clearly sense his presence. Sherlock stayed close to John's side during the x-ray process and every time Sherlock touched his shoulder encouragingly John would smile a little.

"The break is concentrated on your ulna, see, John?" The doctor tapped his finger on a black and white film of John's arm. Sherlock gazed at this film with unprecedented amazement. Those were John's bones, the monster thought. He felt as he had felt when he heard John's heartbeat: shocked and intrigued by the complexity of human life.

John looked rather fascinated as well. "My ulna? That's the bone on my forearm on the side of my pinky, right?" John gestured with his right arm to ask the question.

"Yes, it is. You're very smart, John." Sherlock could tell the doctor was impressed and he felt pride rush through him. The monster had only ever felt proud of himself; Pride for John was much better because with it came a feeling of warmth.

Two hours and a procedure wherein John's arm was fitted with a bright yellow covering later Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson entered the orphanage once more.

It was late when they got back. Past John's bedtime according to Mrs. Hudson.

"John, I want you to have a quick dinner and then you're going straight to bed." Mrs. Hudson had her hand on John's shoulder and she gently directed him to the large table where the orphanage kids ate their meals.

Curious children came up to John and asked him about his arm and John seemed a little flustered.

Sherlock stood in the corner of the room still invisible and watched John interact with the other children.

At one point Phillip—the sneering boy with the brown hair, the one who had pushed John—approached John and Sherlock tensed. What was the bully going to hit John with next?

"Mrs. Hudson told me to apologize for pushing you. It was very wrong of me and I hope your arm heals soon." Phillip spoke mechanically; Sherlock knew he didn't mean a word of his memorized speech.

John was forgiving, however, unlike the vengeful monster. "Thank you, Phillip. I'm sorry too. For calling you stupid."

Mrs. Hudson watched the two boys fondly. "There. All is forgiven. Phillip, you will still have to write lines because John was injured through your carelessness."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I feel so sorry for what I did." Phillip looked endearingly up at Mrs. Hudson and put an arm around John. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the sight of the sneering boy touching his John. When Mrs. Hudson turned away, Phillip dropped his act and pushed John roughly away.

"Stay away from me." He whispered harshly to John. "You're lucky I'm not in big trouble, or you'd have another cast." After this dramatic pronouncement the boy stalked away.

John sighed and poked at the yellow covering—cast—on his arm. The boy's brown eyes sought Sherlock and Sherlock came up to him and took his good hand.

John ate a solitary dinner and left the table with Sherlock to go up to his room.

Mrs. Hudson helped settle John in bed with a pillow to keep his arm elevated and a bag of ice for any swelling. Sherlock impatiently waited for the kindly woman to leave so he could become visible again.

"Go right to bed, dear. You've had a long day." Mrs. Hudson turned off the light and closed the door as she left.

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and made himself visible. "I thought she'd never leave."

"Don't you like Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock?" John wouldn't leave his cast alone; he fiddled with the edge of it restlessly.

"She's tolerable. You're the only human I like, John."

John smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Sherlock mimicked John eliciting a little laugh from the boy.

As John continued to prod his cast Sherlock decided it was a good time to inquire about the bone healing process.

"Are you fixed now, John? Does that yellow thing stop you from being broken?" He tried not to reveal how ignorant he was of human methods but from John's amused eyes, Sherlock knew he went wrong somewhere.

"I'm not broken, Sherlock. Just my arm. One of the bones in my arm broke when Phillip pushed me off the monkey bars on the school playground."

"Monkey bars?" Sherlock stopped trying to hide his confusion.

"Mm hmm."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Monkey bars are just something kids can climb on."

"Not that question, the question referring to your arm? Has it healed? What is that yellow thing? Your doctor called it a cast and I've adopted the moniker but I'm no closer to comprehending what it does."

"You use big words, Sherlock." John stared at him for a moment. "I don't know exactly what the cast does but I think it holds the bones close so they can come together again." John examined his cast. "It's pretty cool no matter what it does, don't you think?"

"Yes. Cool. You said 'one of' your bones are broken. How many bones do you have?" Sherlock felt tremendously naive. He'd tried to avoid asking John questions about the human world so as not to reveal how little he knew. Since John wasn't mocking him for his lack of knowledge the questions kept coming and coming.

"206 bones." John said proudly. "I want to learn the names of all of them. I told you that."

"You've told me many things, John. One cannot possibly retain all of that information."

"Okay, I'll tell you again. Come here. I can show you the bones I know!"

Sherlock came to John's side and crouched there.

"This is your skull. Or cranium." John placed his right hand on the monster's head. "It protects your brain." John moved his hand to the monster's chest. "Here is your rib cage and your ribs protect your heart."

"I see. The main function of your bones is protection."

"I think so. A lot of the bones cover important organs."

John looked so happy to share his knowledge that Sherlock let him describe the human skeleton at length. Eventually, John's yawns became more pronounced and Sherlock decided it was time for him to go to bed.

"Is it not time for your bedtime? Sleep is important to little humans, yes?"

John laughed. "Yeah, sleep is important. You're funny, Sherlock."

"Well, I do my best." Sherlock gave the boy a little mock bow and John smiled fondly at him.

"My arm still hurts a little. But not as bad as when I first broke it. I couldn't even—" John interrupted himself with a yawn, "—get up it hurt so bad!" John's eyelids started to droop and Sherlock pulled the boy's blankets up so he would be comfortable.

"Sherlock?" A sleepy question from John.

"Yes?"

"You called me 'John' today…"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Yeah… You've never done that before." Another yawn. "You usually… call me 'little one'"

Without further ado, John closed his eyes firmly and quickly fell asleep, exhausted after a trying day.

Sherlock the monster stood at John's bedside like a statue. He had called the boy by his name? It was perfectly true that he had never done so before but he had never made a conscious choice to never say the boy's name. Why hadn't he called the boy 'John' in the first place? Perhaps the monster had felt unworthy to adopt the boy's name. What had changed? Maybe he had finally accepted his place in John's life. Whatever the case, John's injury had caused such a strong reaction in the monster that he started using the boy's name unconsciously. Curious.

Sherlock pondered his changing faculties until the sun rose the next day in all its splendid glory.


	7. Protective

**Author's Note: Kinda short. There is an end in sight for this story and it has something that resembles a plot now! Thanks to everyone who has given this story their attention. I own nothing but my story and my insanity.**

Sherlock sat opposite John on his little bed in the corner of his room. He was listening to him read his book and watching the boy's bright brown eyes scan each word carefully.

John was under his blankets and he had just woken up a half-hour ago. His blonde hair—recently cut so his eyes could be seen—was tousled from sleep. His teddy bear, Mr. Bilbo Baggins, had been left behind at John's school after John got hurt, but the bear now sat freshly washed at John's side.

Sherlock had perched on John's footboard while John slept; positioning his long fingers under his chin, Sherlock had watched over the boy during the night.

Three days in his yellow, clunky cast were enough for John to become acclimatized to its presence. He had written his name in big blue letters on the cast and had then written Sherlock's name, inspiring many questions from Mrs. Hudson and the other kids in the orphanage who could read.

Phillip—to Sherlock he would always be known as 'the nasty child who had pushed John'—had seen Sherlock's name written in bold child's scrawl on John's cast and had attempted to mock John.

"Who's Sherlock? A friend of yours? Someone only you can see? An imaginary friend just for you who by some miracle doesn't think you're a freak?" Phillip said in a falsely bright voice.

Sherlock had tensed from behind John, wondering how John would react and whether he should come into view and give Phillip a scare he would never forget.

John had merely beamed after Phillip's words, taking Phillip by surprise. "Yes." John had said with a radiant smile. "Sherlock is my best friend and he is amazing."

Phillip then sneered at John. "Yeah? Is he brain dead or something? Why is he friends with you?"

John had shaken his head at Phillip as if he was bemoaning Phillip's lack of knowledge. "He didn't have any friends either." With this statement John had walked away leaving Phillip dumbfounded for a moment. The nasty boy had recovered enough though to shout after John, "So, both of you are freaks!"

John then turned back and smiled cheekily at Phillip. "Yes, we are."

When back in John's room Sherlock had asked John what a freak was.

"They're people who are different. It's kind of a mean word, so I don't use it. Phillip says I'm... a freak all the time."

"You're not a freak, John."

John shrugged. "Not really. Phillip thinks I am. But he just can't handle the fact that everyone is special and you don't have to be like—like anyone else. Just be yourself." John furrowed his brow in determination as he said this.

Sherlock had smiled at John and his candid view of the world.

Breaking out of his reverie, Sherlock saw that John was looking at him inquisitively.

"What?"

"I asked you a question."

"Oh. I didn't hear you."

"What does 'respectable' mean? It's here in my book." John held up the small book he was reading.

"Respectable means worthy of respect."

"Oh." John looked back down at his book and resumed his slow reading.

Sherlock watched the boy stutter over his words while reading aloud for a moment. It was really extraordinary how quickly John had become the center of Sherlock's life. Hadn't he had a purpose before John? Of course, he did. The monster existed, scaring children and haunting buildings for centuries before John was born. Still, Sherlock hadn't experienced all of the richness that life had to offer until he had met John.

Sherlock's purpose before had been to bring children to hysterics through terror. Now, he felt he would not be happy doing anything but protecting John. What had happened to him?

"John?" Sherlock interrupted John's reading.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"I think I should come to your primary school with you tomorrow. I am wary about your level of safety there."

John actually rolled his eyes; the sarcastic action was quite adorable coupled with his tousled hair and rumpled pajamas.

"I'm _fine_ , Sherlock." John said, a note of exasperation in his voice. "My school isn't dangerous or anything— "

"And yet you came home three days ago with a broken bone."

John seemed a little abashed. "I know. You can't protect me from everything, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "I can and I will."

That made John giggle.

Sherlock didn't ask again about accompanying John to school. He simply followed the boy unbeknownst to John the next time he went to primary school.

This became a routine. Sherlock would follow John to school every day and watch the boy interact with his fellow classmates. John was eager and attentive in class. Sherlock had expected nothing less; the boy answered every question set to him promptly and genuinely enjoyed learning something new.

John, Sherlock decided, was a great deal smarter than the other children.

Every day that John went to primary school, Sherlock glided unseen to John's school just behind the big automobile that transported all of the school-age children at the orphanage to the place of learning. It was a peaceful and refreshing time for him, relishing the feeling of serenity inside him that had replaced the feeling of pointless restlessness that had plagued him for so long.

Over the lonely centuries, Sherlock had become accustomed to the night. He still remembered all of the silent nights under the stars as the world changed around him and he looked for new haunts.

Now, what with the excursions to John's school in broad daylight, and the fact that Sherlock no longer skulked in the shadows in the daytime as he used to, Sherlock developed an appreciation for the sun.

Its brilliant warmth held a fascination for Sherlock. He found himself turning his face to the sun and drinking in the light he had never before experienced.

The warmth he felt in the sun was similar to the warmth he felt in his chest when with John: bright and all-consuming.

One day, Sherlock stopped on the way back to the orphanage to face the sun and relish its warmth.

"Having fun?" Said a voice close to his ear.

Sherlock just managed to stop himself from jumping out of his skin.

He opened his eyes and was met with the sight of a seven-foot shadow like himself with stark grey eyes. It was another monster.

Sherlock had, of course, encountered other beings of his kind before. But when monsters met they didn't normally confront each other unless there was a dispute of territory.

Monsters could see each other when they were both invisible which was sometimes an advantage, and sometimes a distinct disadvantage.

"What do you want?" Sherlock stared the taller monster down, letting the invader know silently that this was his territory and that there were no children here to scare. Nope. There were definitely no blonde haired, brown-eyed, seven-year-old boys in this area so this monster should clear out immediately.

The monster with the grey eyes raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "I'm simply stalking the terrain as you are. Touchy about your territory?"

"Yes. Very. This territory is under my dominion." Sherlock said icily.

The new monster examined Sherlock closely.

"Monsters are not normally this territorial... unless they've befriended a child which is an extremely idiotic thing to do."

Sherlock said nothing but his eyes must have betrayed him because the monster recoiled immediately.

"Oh, you couldn't have. Our kind are strictly forbidden from forming connections with children."

"I don't see how my situation is any business of yours."

Clearly unfazed by Sherlock's hostility, the grey-eyed monster circled Sherlock like an animal inspecting his prey.

"You know, they say monsters like you are on the Side of the Angels. Referring to Guardian Angels… Have you switched to Guardian Angel status? Children detect the loneliness and longing for attachment in your eyes and quicker than lightning a monster becomes a Guardian Angel all because of a child's ability to trust." The other monster smirked as he mocked Sherlock. "Dear, dear, if I cared I could probably help you out of this sticky situation."

"I didn't ask for your intervention." Sherlock was growing angrier by the minute. He didn't want to be patronized by some nosy monster; he never talked to his kind if he could help it. Sherlock didn't deny the fact that he had somehow shifted to become a Guardian Angel to children—one specific child—instead of a true monster. But this monster would never be a complete Angel because the Angels protected all children. Sherlock only intended to protect one.

The other monster's smirk widened into an arrogant smile. "So, you intend to choose the child. Not the aid of a fellow monster. Other monsters will come here, you know. The scent of a child emotionally connected with a monster is especially strong. Your precious child will definitely be in danger." The other monster didn't speak maliciously. He sounded as if he really couldn't care less what happened to any child.

Sherlock's breath caught in his chest. He'd almost forgotten that all children have a scent and that was how monsters honed in on them. The particularly fearful children had a greater stench than others as did the children who were not afraid of the monster under their bed, and who wanted to befriend said monsters. John of course turned out to be the second sort of child. It was immensely hard to separate the two strong scents into clear categories; a monster often had no idea which sort of child he was likely to meet at the end of the trail their strong scent made. Hence Sherlock coming to John with no idea how he would react to the monster.

It was horrifying to Sherlock that because of his friendship with John, John would have an irresistible scent to monsters bent on causing emotional trauma to innocent children. Monsters like Sherlock used to be.

Monsters by the dozen would come to call in John's little orphanage room and this aloof, grey-eyed monster was just the tip of the spear.

"How do I—how can I stop the other monsters from terrorizing Jo—the child?" Sherlock asked the monster, abandoning his pride.

"You know." The other monster stared intensely at Sherlock. "You know how to protect the child. But you won't do it because in this thing humans call friendship, both parties are forever changed. You care for the child as much as the child cares for you."

The other monster shook his head at Sherlock disdainfully. "It's a terrible waste when monsters go down this path. Friendships formed with weak and cowardly children..." The monster tutted at Sherlock and then turned away, unaffected as ever. "Time to choose a side, my fellow monster."

With this cryptic statement the monster was lost to the crowds of London.

The logical choice in this situation was to leave. John was in danger if Sherlock stayed. Their strengthening friendship would make John's scent even more palpable.

If Sherlock left, John wouldn't be targeted by a multitude of monsters because the boy's trust and affection for Sherlock would diminish, therefore dimming his scent. Sherlock ached with sadness to even think of leaving, however. And the act of destroying John's hope and trust in him was a terrible crime to Sherlock. A crime he hoped he would never have to commit.

He would do nothing yet. He may be overreacting for nothing. For now, John was waiting for him back at the orphanage. The other monsters might not zero in on John's scent for years yet.

Little did Sherlock know that another monster had already made John his next target. With baleful red eyes, the ominous threat waited for the time to strike.


	8. Shadows Everywhere

**Author's Note: Plots are hard. Coming up on the end; I predict 2 or so more chapters. Thanks to all of my readers, this is my first story and I'm rather fond of it. I own nothing, just having some fun with other people's creations.**

Needless to say, Sherlock was a little preoccupied as he walked slowly back to the orphanage.

All his long years, Sherlock had schooled himself to be as distant and callous as the grey-eyed monster who had just told Sherlock he'd made a mistake in caring. Caring was a hindrance in Sherlock's profession. In caring for John, Sherlock had become the black sheep in the monster population: the one who had befriended a child and became happier for the connection.

His thoughts turned to the sheer number of monsters in London alone. Even now, Sherlock could smell John's scent: strong, and irresistible to all of the beings who can sense children. His anxiety mounted. How was he going to keep them all away? All of those monsters would be merciless, hungry for fear, and utterly terrifying. Sherlock's insides churned just thinking about it.

Sherlock came to the door of the orphanage and sighed. He had no idea what to do.

If the organized chaos in the orphanage had reflected the turmoil in Sherlock's mind, the entire room would have been flipped upside down and engulfed in flames.

As it was, the children of various ages frolicked and played without a care in the world, completely unaware of the pure panic Sherlock was experiencing.

He entered John's room in a daze and was greeted with a loud cry of "Sherlock!" and the small arms of a child wrapped around his legs.

John looked up at him with his brown eyes filled with affection and Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"Where were you?" John inquired, his arms still wrapped around Sherlock's legs. John positioned his feet on top of Sherlock's and blinked up at the monster's face a couple feet above his own.

Sherlock cleared his throat because it was constricted for some reason. Sherlock had an odd feeling in his chest coupled with the constriction of his throat and he struggled to breathe for a minute as John gazed at him adoringly.

"Um. Out. I was out. Surveying the area, you know." Sherlock invented.

John released him, looking somewhat suspicious. He didn't question the monster further, however.

"I didn't know where you were. When I came in my room... it was empty. It felt weird." John said while fiddling with his cast.

"I'm sorry, John. I did not plan on being out long." Sherlock said to appease the boy.

"That's okay." John was quite a forgiving person.

John was withdrawn for the remaining hours of the day; Sherlock guessed that the boy was wondering where Sherlock could have possibly been while he was at school. Sherlock debated whether he should tell John that for most of the day, he had watched John sitting in his classroom.

In the absence of John's usual happy babbling, the room was oddly silent. Sherlock watched the boy do his homework and thought about how sad John would be if the monster left.

That night John had trouble falling asleep. He lay in his little bed buried in his covers with his eyes wide open and worried.

Sherlock sat in the corner of the room observing the boy until John fell into a clearly restless sleep.

John watched Sherlock attentively for the next couple weeks and Sherlock made sure to do nothing that would evoke more suspicion in the boy. Sherlock gave John his every attention during those few weeks, after all he didn't know how long this arrangement would last after the recent earth-shattering news he had received. Sherlock wanted to soak up every minute of the time he spent with John.

Sherlock's fear over the arrival of malicious monsters haunted his every day, but he didn't let it show. Sherlock didn't give John any reason to suspect that he was thinking about leaving.

One night a couple of weeks after Sherlock's encounter with the grey-eyed monster, John, ensconced in bed, made an odd request.

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

"Will you hold my hand?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused.

"If I'm holding your hand you won't be able to leave." John said, his voice breaking slightly.

Sherlock's heart sank. Despite Sherlock's ministrations of the last couple weeks, John was still worried about the permanency of their arrangement. This had all been set into motion because of Sherlock: John's anxieties stemmed from Sherlock's absence that sunny day when John got home from school.

Sherlock stepped forward and crouched at John's bedside. He took John's warm hand in his own large one and squeezed it reassuringly. The truth was the best idea in this situation, yes?

"Do you want to know why I was gone that day?"

John looked at him and Sherlock recognized the sensitivity in his eyes. "Why?" he said.

"I met another monster." Sherlock told John bluntly.

John's eyes widened. "There are more like you?"

"Indeed. Hundreds."

John closed his eyes. "Will they come here?" The boy didn't sound scared, in fact he rarely did.

"Yes." Sherlock said. "They can smell children. They will come by the dozens, most likely because of your strong scent."

John opened his eyes again. "My scent?"

Sherlock hummed affirmatively.

"Monsters find kids because they smell good?" John looked a little disgusted and Sherlock chuckled.

"The children don't smell 'good' necessarily. Children smell like..." Sherlock tried to find the word. "...innocence, I suppose. The stronger their scent, the more monsters will come to feed on their fear." Sherlock eventually responded heavily.

John now squeezed Sherlock's hand. "And I... have a strong scent?" John wrinkled his nose.

"Yes. Your scent is particularly strong because I… care about you. Trust in a monster increases a scent." Sherlock felt like he had repeated that statement to himself guiltily for ages.

"That sounds weird. Only animals follow scents" the boy said, unaffected by Sherlock's explanation of their friendship causing trouble for the boy.

Sherlock didn't have enough insecurity in his body to feel offended by that comment. "Well, we monsters are practically animals anyway." Sherlock said, the vocal equivalent of a shrug.

John looked at him. "You're not."

"I'm not what, John?" Sherlock, for some reason, wanted to hear the boy say that he wasn't an animal. Maybe he was a little insecure.

If it came from John's mouth, Sherlock could believe it.

"You're not a monster."

What followed that statement was a tight pain in the vicinity of Sherlock's chest.

"We've been over this, John. Yes, I am." Sherlock said bitterly.

"No. You're not. Monsters are mean and evil and scary. You're nice and funny, and... my friend." John ended rather sheepishly.

Sentiment and sappiness were not Sherlock's forte. This fact did not prevent Sherlock from taking the seven-year-old in his arms and holding him close, an action he had never initiated.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said simply as he stroked the boy's hair.

John patted Sherlock on the back clumsily and Sherlock felt the tightness in his chest soften into a warm glow.

Sherlock held the boy until he fell asleep in his arms. Sherlock didn't know if he was comforting the boy or himself more.

Though he didn't know what had been established in the conversation they had just had, Sherlock, as he stood and swayed with the sleeping boy in his arms, gained a greater appreciation for John's strength and his acceptance of life's faults.

Sherlock paced after he settled John back in his bed, wondering how he would explain their situation in more detail. He hadn't told John, for instance, that his scent would continue to strengthen in intensity while Sherlock remained John's friend.

His pacing became more agitated when his thoughts turned to ways that he could break that trust, disabling John's strong scent and keeping John out of constant danger as a result.

The devil's advocate in Sherlock's mind spoke up: _But do you want John to hate you? To break his trust is to dim his scent, yes, but it will also bring emotional trauma in place of the physical trauma you believe you are sparing him from._

Sherlock groaned and waved off the persistent voice. "Yes, we've been over this before. That has been established." He muttered.

Several conversations with himself and one severe headache later, Sherlock hadn't moved any closer towards a solution to his and John's problem. He simply couldn't find an escape route that would protect John from any pain.

When had he gotten so involved with the human error of caring?

Days became weeks yet again and life was quiet at the orphanage. A new understanding of their standing with each other had led to an open relationship between the boy and the monster.

Sherlock talked more instead of laconically responding to John's monologues. He told the boy stories of his past life and read the alphabet over and over again, delighting John with his progress.

John beamed like a proud teacher every time Sherlock recognized a letter and Sherlock rolled his eyes at his exuberant pride outwardly, but on the inside Sherlock felt as though he was glowing.

Domestic life was something Sherlock had always scorned and scoffed at. Accustomed now to home life, Sherlock decided that the domestic spectrum had its advantages.

It had long been an axiom of Sherlock's that the little things were infinitely the most important. Although, in the past, "little things" meant tiny details about children that would offer the most scaring potential. Nevertheless, the simple moments in Sherlock's new life were what lingered in his mind at the end of each day.

Sherlock carefully filed away the little things: like how some mornings Sherlock greeted John as he woke up by standing upside down on the ceiling and smiling like a Cheshire Cat; John jumped in shock every time but soon after relaxed with a soft smile and a childish admonishment of "You're weird"; Or how John had taken to holding Sherlock's hand in order to drop off to sleep, and how Sherlock didn't mind.

Little things Sherlock knew he would miss with a powerful, longing ache if he ever had to leave. Sherlock felt danger growing closer all the time. It was as if an ominous cloud loomed over the orphanage and Sherlock was ignoring it presently for the sake of convenience. Sherlock knew his time with John was growing short, but he meant to delay his departure as long as he could.

When John got his clunky cast off, Sherlock took to prowling around the vicinity of the orphanage while John was at primary school. He had decided to be proactive to prevent threats by defending his territory; Sherlock's incessant prowling around the orphanage had a dual purpose: looking out for other monsters and easing the weight on Sherlock's mind as the place was still devoid of prospective monsters.

Sherlock saw nothing worthy of suspicion until he had done this ritual for five days.

A charcoal shadow was lurking around the orphanage. Sherlock glared at it and approached the specter, telling it in no uncertain terms that though a strong scent had brought him here, Sherlock would make him leave.

Disputes of territory were messy businesses; the charcoal specter left with a longing glance in the direction of the orphanage, where the owner of the strong scent had just arrived.

With that threat averted easily, Sherlock felt some anxiety leave his chest; maybe all of the monsters would be easy to banish.

Sherlock stalked the area a little longer—can't be too careful—before reentering the orphanage to hear about John's day at school as usual.

Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped foot into the orphanage. The desk outside John's room was overturned and Sherlock's heart nearly stopped. He forced himself to take a deep breath: one overturned piece of furniture did not mean danger. Sherlock turned the doorknob and stepped inside, anxious with anticipation.

"Lovely. Now that all of the members of our meeting have deigned to be present, we can begin." Said a foreign voice.

As his heart beat frantically, Sherlock turned his head, seeking the voice to be met with a blood-chilling sight.

John stood pinned against the wall by a monster with red-eyes of staggering intensity. John was breathing rapidly and his eyes were closed. The monster had one clawed hand over John's throat and the other clenched around several locks of John's hair.

Sherlock nearly screamed in fear and rage. The monster had crept into the orphanage while Sherlock was outside. Sherlock had mistakenly assumed no one could come in or out of the orphanage without his knowledge.

Sherlock wished he could move; his feet felt rooted into the creaky wood floor and all he could do was watch as a single tear came out of one of John's tightly shut eyes.

The red-eyed monster grinned at Sherlock's obvious distress. "Do you want to know the difference between you and me, weakling?" The monster said to Sherlock softly. "You have never been comfortable with being called a monster whereas I... relish it."


	9. Phantom Faces

**Author's Note: A chapter composed mostly of dialogue. Tell me what you think: good comments are appreciated, criticism is accepted. I own nothing and I will continue to own nothing. I use a couple Moriarty quotes—they are not mine. I use a Voldemort quote—that's not mine either.**

"Release the boy." Sherlock spoke calmly, but on the inside, he was anything but calm. He swallowed against the rising tide of fear in his chest. "John will not be a victim to your schemes."

The fiend didn't move except to ruffle John's hair. "John? Is that his name? That's precious. Can I call him Johnny?"

John bit his lip in distress; he didn't speak.

The monster's eyes gleamed with malice. "Both of you are so quiet. Was it something I said? I've been scoping out this room for weeks, and the constant inane chattering from this one nearly drove me insane." As he said 'this one' he shook John roughly. John stiffened, but he still didn't make a sound.

Sherlock stepped forward, his feet finally remembering how to function.

"Oh, he's protective." The monster said mockingly as Sherlock came ever closer to the two of them huddled against the wall. "I think I've provoked him, what do you think, Johnny?"

John opened his eyes in alarm. "Stop, Sherlock! He'll hurt you!" John said, and his eyes were full of anxiety.

"It's alright, John." Sherlock whispered. "You'll be okay."

"I'm not worried about me." John whispered back.

"Sherlock? He's given you a name? How sweet!" The monster had been watching their exchange and now he spoke in a demented playful voice. "Careful, Sherlock, Johnny's right." The monster resumed, "Back off, or..." He tightened his hand on John's throat. John gasped for breath and Sherlock immediately backed up with his hands raised to chest level.

"Please." Sherlock had never begged in his life. He had never been party to a hostage situation either.

The monster loosened his hold; John and Sherlock breathed again.

"There we are..." the creature's red-eyes watched Sherlock intently. "I'm glad you know who is in charge."

Sherlock's panic was now coupled with white-hot anger; he wanted the cretin away from John this very second.

"What do you want." Not a question, a succinct statement.

The red-eyed monster drummed his fingers on John's throat. "I want to negotiate. I want to give you a glimpse of my world."

John shuddered at the monster's silky voice and Sherlock's eyes darted from the distressed John back to the monster rapidly.

"Your efforts to inform me about the world of psychotic monsters are futile. I'm not interested." Sherlock worked hard to ensure his voice didn't break.

"Psychotic?" The monster widened his blood red-eyes and smiled, revealing pointed teeth. "Who told you we were psychotic?"

"I inferred." Sherlock responded dryly.

"Well..." his smile widened. "You're quite right. I have a network, you see."

"I don't care about your elite team of monster maniacs," Sherlock bit out. "Release the boy." He repeated.

The monster, irked at being interrupted, pulled John closer to his shadowy body. John struggled to pull free.

"Ah, ah, ah. Stay still, boy. I don't think I will let him go, Sherlock, I have your precious child right where I want him. His release will come after you listen to me calmly and respectfully. I am going to tell you how my "elite team" functions. Otherwise... I show you just how psychotic I can be." The ghoulish smile remained on the monster's face. Sherlock to take a moment to faintly shudder at the monster's alarming appearance: he was almost a foot taller than Sherlock and his head was adorned with two sharp horns.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Fine. Talk." If all the monster wanted was for Sherlock to listen, Sherlock was more than willing to comply. The better to make sure John was released quickly.

"Children are easy to scare." The monster began without further ado. "Due to the unparalleled ease found in producing it, I became bored with the whining of children and decided to try my hand at terrorizing adults. The challenge presented in making adults scream, I found, was much more inviting than the effortless way I could make children cower."

The monster's eyes had become unfocused and introspective. Sherlock watched his reverie in disgust while John stood with his eyes closed, resigned to his captivity.

"Eventually I was introduced to like-minded monsters. These monsters agreed that the pleasure of scaring children had lost its novelty. We set out for blood." The monster's eyes refocused and he stared at Sherlock. "We attack all men." He said softly. "Physically and mentally. We creep through alleys and leave people reeling with fear. We whisper to men and watch them go slowly mad. We are the reason humans are afraid of traveling in darkness."

Sherlock tensed. "You're insane."

"You're just getting that now?" The monster responded playfully.

Sherlock glanced at John again; he looked as helpless as Sherlock felt.

"Since I can sense your growing impatience, I shall get to the point." The monster drawled. "I was lured here by Johnny's overwhelming scent. I, of course, knew what his scent meant—a scent that strong meant the child had wrapped a monster around his finger—and I admit that I was intrigued." Now, the monster looked down at John hungrily and Sherlock's heart clenched with fear.

"Johnny's irresistible innocence is something that monsters kill to possess... but I quickly overcame that particular need when I saw who the boy had wrapped around his finger... who the boy had befriended. You, Sherlock."

Sherlock furrowed his brow as the fiend's explanation took an unexpected turn. The monster wasn't interested in John?

"If it is me you want... why did you immediately go for the boy?"

John stood stock still, but he was breathing rapidly. His eyes now open, the boy gazed at Sherlock in alarm.

At Sherlock's question, the monster's eyes rolled. "Sentiment really does make one slow. What a moronic question. Johnny here is my bargaining chip. As long as I have him silent in my clutches, you will have to listen to me. Essentially, I have the both of you at my mercy."

Sherlock couldn't deny the truth of that statement. "You still haven't told me what you want from me." Sherlock said restlessly.

"Isn't it obvious? Once I saw your potential I knew you would be a formidable addition to my network. You have no idea what powerful deeds you could be capable of." The monster stared at Sherlock intently. "We could be unstoppable. The shadows of the night that everyone—not just children—is afraid of."

"Don't listen to him, Sherlock!" John choked out. "You're not bad like he is!"

"Shut up, boy." The monster said with a chuckle. "Bad... good... these are infantile separations. There is no good or evil, there is only power and those too weak to seek it. Join me, and you will realize your true potential. Shake off the bonds of morality and become a true monster... in appearance and action."

The monster waited for Sherlock to respond with bated breath. Sherlock was feeling exceptionally slow and stupid. How could he have missed the fiend's true intentions? Sherlock thought about what he would say to this monster's request had he never met John... he would probably have said yes. Now, however, there was no choice.

"You're operating under a woeful lack of knowledge if you think I would for one second contemplate joining you. I turned from the path of causing fear long ago." As he said this, Sherlock gazed at John with all the affection he had acquired for the boy in their months and months of friendship.

John displayed a small smile and Sherlock felt his heart warm with pride at the boy's courage: if he was able to smile when in the horrendous clutches of that fiend, then he was braver by far than Sherlock had originally thought. And he had thought quite a lot.

Sherlock expected the monster to be angry, instead he just looked mildly annoyed.

"I thought as much." He said. "I expected you to decline but I'm just a teensy bit disappointed." The monster appraised Sherlock and there was silence in the room for a minute.

Then the monster released John from his hold and shoved the boy across the room. John landed on his knees a few feet away from the monster, and Sherlock dashed forward and took the boy in his arms. Any residual panic in Sherlock's chest diminished as soon as he held John close.

The monster sneered as John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder. From his crouching position, the monster stood up without a sound.

"This meeting was just the preliminary event, you know. I will make sure my displeasure is known. You and your boy will be stalked from every corner by the worst monsters. I will send them with a simple message: One of us has turned. Destroy the life he has built with the child. I know they will be only too willing to comply." The monster said with a malicious eye askance to watch the two of them.

Sherlock, arms still wrapped around John, who was trembling, responded harshly, "The monsters will come here regardless of your message. You will not destroy the life I have built, I will willingly leave if my absence means John's safety."

John shifted in his arms but didn't speak.

The other monster rolled his eyes. "God, that's sickening. No wonder the boy's scent is so strong; he must trust you implicitly."

"Leave." Sherlock said, disregarding the monster's remark.

"For now." The monster looked at Sherlock speculatively. "I'll leave for now. I want to offer you one last thing."

"What?" Sherlock said impatiently.

"I didn't know your bond with the boy was this strong... this changes things. You said you're willing to leave? Fine. Being apart from the boy will destroy you. Leave the boy, leave here and I won't send my network after Johnny. His scent will diminish with your absence, you know."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock snapped. His mind was racing. "That's your condition—just leave?" Sherlock didn't remind the fiend that he had pondered the idea of leaving before. This was better than Sherlock had hoped; if the other monster's word could be trusted, John would be safe if Sherlock left.

"Just leave." The monster repeated. "And your precious child will remain unharmed. Your emotional devastation will please me greatly."

"If you harm him... I will know." Sherlock threatened.

With a mock bow, the monster responded, "Abandon him, and not a hair on his head will be touched."

Sherlock swallowed and looked down at John. The child's brown eyes were fixed on his own, and Sherlock saw resignation in them.

"Alright." Sherlock said, feeling as if he was making a deal with the devil. In a way, he was. This tall creature was definitely an acquaintance of the devil's.

"Lovely..." The monster appraised Sherlock one last time. "Well, I'd better be off."

"Stay away from here." The words came out despite himself; Sherlock cringed at the sound of the plea.

"Gladly. As long as you keep your end of the deal." And with a sarcastic wave, the fiend moved with the speed of light to the open window and flung himself out of it. Sherlock saw the fiend gliding out into the sinking sun.

John took a shaky breath as soon as he was gone, and Sherlock rubbed his back comfortingly.

"I didn't s-see him. He came behind me and pu-pushed me against the wall." John said, words muffled as his head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock, still shell-shocked, hushed him quietly. "It's alright. It wasn't your fault."

A strained silence ensued; Sherlock focused on steadying his breathing and the boy he had ensconced in his arms.

After a couple minutes, Sherlock nudged John to make him sit up and stroked his cheek with a long finger: there was a small cut on the boy's cheek, most likely due to the fiend's sharp nails. Sherlock scanned John from head to feet, looking for more injuries.

John withstood Sherlock's ministrations patiently.

"As soon as... he got me. I knew you would want to leave." John whispered.

Sherlock eyes snapped back to John's face; the boy was looking down.

"Look at me." Sherlock said.

John swallowed with difficulty and looked up. There were tears brimming in his eyes.

"I don't want to leave, do you understand?"

A tear fell, and instead of softening Sherlock, John's tears hardened his resolve. "No tears. This is a good thing. I'm leaving to protect you." Sherlock said firmly.

John took another shaky breath, "Why can't y-you protect m-me here?" John said in a voice choked with tears.

Sherlock pulled John close again. "I'm the one putting you in danger, little one."

John put a hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed himself back up to look at Sherlock. "No, it's monsters like, like _him_ that put me in danger!" John said, pointing to the wall where he was held captive not long ago as he said 'him'. "You protect me from them. What if more come and you're gone?" John continued. Sherlock saw anger and fear in John's brown orbs now.

Sherlock thought about how to respond. His chest ached with sympathy for the boy's pain. Once again, Sherlock wondered at the messiness of human emotion. There was no way to escape from this situation painlessly.

"You will be safe if I leave." Sherlock reiterated. "I will ensure it. And you are by no means defenseless, John."

"Yes, I am." John muttered. "I can't do anything."

Sherlock met the boy's eyes. "Don't say that. You have the ultimate weapon."

"What?" John asked, curious despite himself.

"You are not afraid. Your bravery is the reason I am who I am today, John. And there is no doubt in my mind that you can handle any monster that comes here." Sherlock said, reassuring himself as well as John. He had never factored in the fact that John could hold his own against the monsters that came. After all, he had made a sentimental friend out of a centuries old monster. That is the result of considerable compassion and bravery.

"Some of the monsters are scary…" John said. "I'm not a hero, Sherlock… I can't be b-brave all the time."

"You can and you will." Sherlock said fiercely. "I believe in you, John. I'm leaving because I have confidence that you can take care of yourself." This was only a little lie. Sherlock planned to check up on John every now and then after his departure.

John blinked back more tears. "Will you... still be my friend?" John said quietly.

"Always." Sherlock said, smiling at the sappiness of it all.

"Okay." John looked heartbroken yet resigned.

"John."

Sherlock waited until he had the boy's attention. He looked into his brown eyes one last time. "Thank-you." He said. "You have brought me the gift of life... and love... that I was denied my entire life. I am forever in your debt."

John made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Go." He said. "I love you, Sherlock."

John kissed Sherlock on the forehead and crawled off of his lap. This candid statement was almost enough to make Sherlock stay, despite all of the danger.

Sherlock summoned all his resolve and stood up. "Goodbye, John." He said.

John smiled with tears in his eyes. "Bye." A whisper.

Sherlock committed the sight of the boy standing there, so small next to him, to memory. Before he could change his mind, Sherlock closed his eyes and walked to the window. As he glided out into the late afternoon sun, Sherlock the monster cried for the first time in his long, long life.

 **A/N: This isn't the last chapter.**


	10. Guardian Angel

**Author's Note: I switch POV a couple times in this one, but its easy to tell whose point of view it's in. Maybe an epilogue after this? Thanks to all who have followed/favorited/ and reviewed this story! I own nothing but my head canons and fluffy plot-bunnies. Sherlock and John belong to someone else…**

Sherlock was there when John got adopted. He lurked in the background invisibly when the nice family called the Watsons went to the orphanage with intent to adopt.

The adoption process was long and tedious, and Sherlock had missed most of it.

As he hid in the corners of rooms Sherlock heard phrases like "Replacement Birth Certificate" and "biological parents". He didn't understand what the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson we're discussing, but their long talks had apparently been John's ticket to a home. A real home.

John was eight years old when he became part of a family for the first time. Sherlock tried not to notice the bitter ache of longing in his chest as he watched John walk away from the orphanage forever hand in hand with Mr. Watson. The little hand that Sherlock used to hold.

Sherlock saw the watching eyes of a monster out of the corner of his own eye. Sherlock had quickly found out that the red-eyed fiend had put the word out to his monster friends.

They didn't touch John, but they followed Sherlock around, making sure Sherlock never got to close to John.

Sherlock saw them as a necessary hindrance. The monsters, in keeping Sherlock away, were protecting John. John's scent was barely noticeable now.

When John was ten, Sherlock found himself wandering to the new home John inhabited with the three Watsons.

As always, Sherlock was aware of the consequences of being close to John. However, that day—a cloudless Thursday—he was feeling particularly foolhardy.

He sat outside John's first-floor bedroom window for the better part of the day, listening to John and his adoptive sister bicker while playing a game.

"Harriet, you moved your piece wrong. You were supposed to move three spaces and you moved four."

Sherlock, his eyes closed, smiled at John's need for fairness.

Harriet was two years older than John, but Sherlock could tell John knew a lot more about the world than his adoptive sister.

"Johnny..." Harriet whined. "We've played three times and I still haven't won! It's just one space more..." Harriet beseeched her brother.

"Don't call me Johnny. I don't like that name." John said.

Sherlock remembered the red-eyed monster's moniker for the boy, and silently agreed with John's plea not to refer to him as thus.

"Yeah, okay, John."

The argument over the game seemed to be forgotten and Sherlock contentedly listened to the two children finish playing.

The sun began to sink and Sherlock was still seated outside John's window. The boy's voice alone calmed him and banished any negative feelings. Soon, the Watson house became quiet as the moon replaced the sun and the night's darkness was absolute.

Of course, Sherlock's presence there had not gone unnoticed. Several monsters had flocked around John's house to make sure Sherlock didn't renege on his promise.

The fiend's minions weren't completely watchful though, and when John began whimpering in the middle of the night, Sherlock was up and through the window before he or the other monsters had any time to think.

John was lying in bed with his covers kicked down to the foot of the mattress. His cheeks were flushed red and his blonde hair was messy from frequently tossing and turning.

Sherlock, realizing his hasty action, looked out of the open window into the night: the monsters lurking around hadn't seen Sherlock's entry into John's house. He had time.

Sherlock walked to John's bed without making a sound. John was still whimpering in his sleep; his face had tear tracks on it.

Sherlock, though he'd had no previous experience with the phenomenon, knew John was having a nightmare. A particular strong nightmare that the boy was physically terrified of.

"No... no... I don't..." John mumbled in his sleep.

Sherlock stared down at John helplessly—why was he always so helpless to react around John in distress?

"Please..." John continued quite quietly. "Sherlock...please..."

Hearing his name, Sherlock needed no more prompting. He stooped and pulled the boy into his arms, holding him close as if protecting him from his dreams.

Sherlock didn't know if John had said his name because he sensed the monster's presence, or because Sherlock was a factor in the nightmare. He didn't care much for the reason of John's calling out though, as it gave him an excuse to hold John tightly in his arms again.

John trembled and put a fisted hand on Sherlock's chest; he was still in the throes of the nightmare and sleeping fitfully.

Sherlock swayed back and forth with the whimpering boy ensconced in his embrace.

"Shh, little one." Sherlock said into John's ear. "Everything is fine."

Sherlock didn't know where he was finding this innate ability to comfort. He continued rocking and hushing until John's whimpers began to subside.

John's hair—still tousled from restless sleep—was darker than Sherlock remembered it. His blonde locks, previously almost white, were now sandy in color.

It was while Sherlock was carding his hand through John's soft hair that the boy spoke up again, his voice soft.

"What're you doing here?" John asked, quiet as a mouse.

Sherlock looked down to find John's brown eyes on his. The boy looked disoriented and still half asleep.

Sherlock stroked the boy's cheek with his finger and smiled.

"I was summoned by your cry." Sherlock said, somewhat truthfully.

"Oh." John said, followed by a big yawn.

Sherlock knew John was unlikely to remember much in this state, so he held the boy in his arms for a while longer, rocking him and whispering comforting words.

Soon, John was drifting to sleep again. Before he slipped into slumber, John had one last thing to say: "I'll keep being brave, Sherlock..."

Sherlock smiled down at the boy. "I know." He replied and planted a kiss on the boy's head.

Once John was sound asleep, no longer plagued by his nightmare, Sherlock gently settled him back on his bed. Though he was loath to let the boy go, Sherlock knew the fiend's monster minions would make their appearance soon and force Sherlock to leave.

Sherlock hated being under the dominion of these monsters, but he hated the idea of any harm coming to John more.

Carding his hand through John's hair one last time, Sherlock finally stepped away from the boy.

He didn't see John again for seven years.

* * *

John woke up in his bed abruptly from a vivid dream.

In the dream he was being cradled by a tall shadow. The shadow had large, pale eyes and he whispered comforting things in John's ear.

John was somewhat confident this was a dream and not a memory, but there was a nagging doubt in his mind that told him this experience was not a dream—it had happened.

John sat up and rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. He tried to recall all of the elements of his dream. Or was it a memory? John searched for the details of the...memory the way you search for a missing puzzle piece that's just driving you insane with its continued absence.

Nothing came. No further memories of the pale-eyed shadow surfaced. John banished his frustration and got up.

That day was rife with activity and after an argument with Harriet, a long day at school, and rugby practice, John had forgotten all about the strange dream in which he was being cradled by a shadow.

John was walking home after rugby practice because cabs were expensive and so was college. He was getting a bit crazed about saving money and Harriet was forever exasperated by John's thrift.

Yawning, John adjusted his backpack straps and kept walking the familiar path back to his house in downtown London.

Halfway home, John got the feeling that someone was following him. The feeling became valid when John heard rapid footsteps closing in on him.

Turning around quickly, John was met with the sight of a stocky man in a dark hoodie running straight for him.

Before John knew what was happening, the stocky man barreled him over. John landed hard on his shoulder and groaned in pain. He didn't allow himself to bemoan his most likely dislocated shoulder too long; John kicked blindly upward and the stocky man grunted. In retaliation the man gave John a couple hard kicks to the stomach with his heavy boots.

John continued to struggle as the man rummaged through John's pockets in search of his wallet.

John thought vaguely that this was his first mugging, and reflected that the man's effort wasn't worth it: John only had about two dollars in his wallet, the rest was stored safely in John's bank account.

His stomach ached from the kicks, and his shoulder was the epitome of agony, but with his good arm, John aimed a punch at his attacker.

John's wallet now in his hands, the man was too distracted to dodge John's punch and John landed a strong hook on his lower jaw.

"Now, you're gonna get it." The man growled.

John closed his eyes in preparation for the blow, he was utterly spent and in awful pain.

"This'll teach you." The man drew his fist back deliberately.

John, panting, his eyes half-open, responded, "How many...brain cells did it take you... to come up with that... s-statement?" His sarcasm earned John no favors other than a disoriented feeling of hysteria: he was mocking his attacker.

And then the blow came and John's head slammed into the pavement and pain eclipsed everything else.

John woke up in the hospital four hours later with a mild concussion and bruised ribs.

Witnesses off the mugging claimed to have seen a tall, dark shadow pulling the mugger away from John.

John didn't know what to make of that news, but after he was told of his savior, he remembered his dream again.

A tall shadow... Why couldn't he remember?

* * *

Of, course Sherlock stepped in to save John from that vicious attacker, what else was he going to do?

He had happened upon John purely by chance as he had been wandering the thoroughfares of London for something to do.

The fact that he was wandering a very specific area of London, an area in which Sherlock knew at least one resident, was irrelevant.

Sherlock had no trouble recognizing John, even after the seven-year separation. He didn't even pause to think—Sherlock did that a lot around John—before pulling the man who had dared to mess with John in Sherlock's presence away and breaking several of his limbs for good measure.

In his hasty act of rescue, Sherlock had neglected continuing the concentration necessary to remain invisible and he knew he was seen by several humans as well as some curious monsters.

Whatever the consequences saving John had been worth it. He would do it again and again with no thoughts of himself.

* * *

Then came Afghanistan. A country far away from London, England. Far enough away that no monsters there were part of the fiend's inner circle.

Sherlock followed John there because even after all of these years he was still indebted to his first friend.

John was an adult now, but as Sherlock looked down at John's crumpled form in the heat of the Afghanistan desert, bleeding from the shoulder and surely in a tremendous amount of pain, he saw the little boy of the past, lying in a hospital bed with a broken arm.

Sherlock knelt by John's side, disbanding his invisibility, and placing a hand on John's sweaty forehead.

John was losing a lot of blood and Sherlock felt panic bubble up in his very soul.

The war zone was full of people dying. John, as he had foreseen he would be since the age of seven, was their doctor, and yet he couldn't help any of them. He needed help himself.

"Please, God, let me live." The delirious John muttered, barely audible over the sounds of chaotic war all around them.

Seeing speech as a good sign, Sherlock carded a hand through John's sweaty hair and spoke to him for the first time in almost two decades.

"John, John you'll be alright. I will not let anything happen to you."

Amazingly, John huffed a laugh. "A little late f-for that, aren't you... Sherlock."

Sherlock felt an absurd surge of joy: John remembered him! John knew he was there.

"Yes, John. I am a tad late." Sherlock said.

John forced his eyes open. His brown eyes were filled with pain. "You came back, though. T-that's go-good."

"Always, John."

"Good... that's good... D'you think you could h-help me, Sherlock?"

No further prompting needed, Sherlock picked John up effortlessly and with the amazed eyes of soldiers on him, Sherlock carried his friend to safety.

* * *

"Seriously, John, I think you have a Guardian Angel!" John's friend Bill Murray said to John almost a week after John was shot with an Afghani bullet. "Half the battlefield saw the thing carrying you serenely to the hospital! Dark as night, and tall as hell and all!"

John smiled at Bill, rubbing his bandages absentmindedly. "I think you were delirious." He responded, knowing who his "Guardian Angel" actually was and wishing he could say thank-you to his oldest friend.

Bill laughed, "I thought I was too! But the thing was crystal clear, plain as day, stalking through the battlefield." Bill shook his head and looked at the ceiling. "Man… I saw that tall, black thing carrying you like a baby, and I somehow started believing in a God."

John looked at Bill with some surprise until Bill met his eyes once more. "Someone really wants to make sure you're safe, John."

John nodded at that, because Bill had gotten that right.


	11. Epilogue

**Author's Note: This is the end. A very short check-up on the monster and his boy because I don't like endings and I didn't want to have a sad ending. I hope you enjoyed my first story! Thank you to all who gave my questionable writing skills a chance! I do not own anything and I will never own anything.**

The monster had been around for centuries. 500 years, in fact. 500 years of darkness and deceit; fear and turmoil. For much of his long, long life, the monster had been self-serving. Callous and unfeeling was this six-foot shadow.

Then, this monster met a young boy and this boy introduced the monster, who had thought he had known everything there was to be known, to the concept of love. And there was a light in the darkness.

The monster, filled with love for a small boy that had offered him the world, now spent all of his days enjoying a happiness that he had never felt before.

This happiness and this love were the cause of an immense change in the monster. For when a monster learns to love, they become a true Guardian Angel.

Sherlock never thought he would be capable of such a weighty title. Guardian Angels fought for what was right while monsters loved causing wrongs.

But, as he watched the medic of the British Army with a shoulder wound recover in the Afghan hospital, Sherlock now thought that there was no one else he would rather be than John Watson's Guardian Angel.

 _ **And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. -John 1:5**_


End file.
